


At The End Of It All

by PseudoAuthor



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Bilbo-centric, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship, Fíli Friday, Gap Filler, Gen, Grief/Mourning, My First Work in This Fandom, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2808584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PseudoAuthor/pseuds/PseudoAuthor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The heir, the spare, my friend, the end. </p><p>After the battle they bring home the dead - retrieving Fíli takes a while longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At The End Of It All

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, I've never read The Hobbit (so terms/descriptions may be incorrect - I can only apologise for that). Nor have I ever written for it. So yay! First Hobbit fic! (Also - obviously, nothing belongs to me) 
> 
> Secondly, I have not actually watched BOtFA so I'm working from what spoilers I know and what I would've liked to have seen considering the circumstances. Also this was written in part as a response to those on Tumblr who lamented the general lack of Fíli - so I suppose, this wouldn't have been written without you all :) 
> 
> Warnings: Character deaths, vivid descriptions of injuries and of Fíli's death, general sadness/mourning/grief. Unbeta'd.

When everything is over the dwarves go and collect their fallen kin from the battlefield.

Bilbo tries to help as best he can.

The smell of blood and bile and sweat permeate through the air. The old him wouldn't have been able to deal with the overhanging reminders of death and despair. It lingers on the blood-soaked land before him. But now? He's seen too much violence, heard too much agony, touched only blackness that will follow into his dreams and mar him with an uneasiness that colours the rest of his life. 

So what of the Bilbo now? What of the hobbit currently breathing and unflinching and standing outside a make shift tent? The Bilbo now-

Takes bandages to the tents.

Wraps limbs.

Comforts sobbing/scared/angry/lost/hurt dwarves with tales of the Shire, aware that whilst they've secured their home, they've lost something more.

The Bilbo of now holds down dwarves as they have their bones reset even if with one buck they manage to lift him off his feet. Honestly he's not useful in this situation but at least it allows him to focus on something other than Thorin. And Kíli. And Fíli…

* * *

For a second he allows himself respite and leaves the tent moving away a little over the ridge wringing his hands impatiently as he squints over the corpses that lie in wait for reclamation.

He turns his head quickly at the sound of footsteps only to find Ori hobbling towards him; cuts across his face, writing hand in a sling, fingers splinted and bandaged to mend the broken bones. No matter though, Ori can use his other hand – Ori is talented like that.

"Mister Baggins...they've…" he trails off biting his lip. Bilbo remains silent. Patient for Ori who is a child by dwarf standards and who is too kind to have participated in this quest; dwarven culture be damned. "Thorin's in the tent."

_Oh thank god._

Bilbo runs.

* * *

"The elven-lass…" Bofur comes skidding to a halt, his ear-flap hat clutched in shaking palms. "She's sent word - Kíli's gone to The Halls." He frowns and repeats himself unable to understand the silence that greets him.

This time it is Balin that speaks still covered in blood and dirt; opening the tent flap a little wider so that Bofur can see Thorin's cooling body lying prone on the makeshift bed. "I suppose," he begins, swallowing thickly, "I suppose that at least he won't be alone."

No one cares to notice Bofur's hat dropping to the ground.

* * *

Tauriel brings Kíli's body to them and leaves just before dusk makes way to night.

There's more to it.

Her eyes are red but there are no tear tracks. Her steady hands that cradled a bow and arrows now move with a tremor. Bilbo watches silently eyes transfixed on the she-elf and finds it all too disconcerting.

Kíli is too pale.

Quiet.

So lifeless.

He lets out a low hum that begins in the back of his throat just to fill in the silence because-

_Kíli isn’t making sounds._

Just before she disappears, one delicate hand reaches into her uniform and pulls out a smooth stone with runes carved within it. She turns back to Kíli's body, kisses his forehead and places the stone in the palm of his hand before crossing it over his chest.

Then, she leaves.

* * *

They eventually move into Erebor. Thorin and Kíli lie side by side in the mausoleum housing the line of Durin. Balin and others have redressed them in clean suits of armor.

Thorin’s hair is braided again befitting the King under the Mountain.

Kíli’s hair has been left alone, brushed but otherwise untouched befitting a princeling who was wild an untamed but otherwise noble in blood.

Dwarves begin to pay their respects in the midst of burying/burning/mourning/rebuilding.

Bombur and Bifur sit outside keeping guard. Only Iglishmek dancing through their hands passes the time.

* * *

“Aren’t you going to go in?”

Dori finds him standing just outside the large wooden doors. Bombur sits to the left of the door eating a small bundle of grapes whilst Bifur mumbles in broken stings of Khuzdul; fingers scratching beneath the axe-head embedded in his skull.

“I can’t...not yet – not until…” Bilbo’s reply trails off and Dori places a hand on his shoulder. He shakes his head. “It’s just not fair.”

Bombur having finished the last of his grapes looks up them sadly.

Bifur grunts. Thumps his hand on his chest and holds his hand up. He indicates three different heights and grunts again. His hand is shaking, making a point about the shortest height. He’s making a point about the dwarf whose name refuses to be uttered out loud but yet remains in the forefront of their minds. 

Sighing Dori replies and nods his head in resignation listening to Bifur’s final utterance for the night.

“What did he say?” Bilbo asks.

“Just like you, he won’t go to pay his respects until they are all brought home.”

* * *

"Dwalin,” Bilbo says quietly jumping to sit on the stone wall next to the dwarf, “we have to find him.

“They’re out searching for him,” Dwalin mutters.

It isn’t good enough and he doesn’t understand why Dwalin isn’t leading the search himself. “You saw what happened to him, please Dwalin.” He puts a hand on Dwalin’s arm and shakes it. “I will go out alone if I must, but I don’t…please don’t make me do it alone.”

Dwalin stares at him then back out into the distance. “First light tomorrow Mister Baggins. If you aren’t ready by first light…”

Bilbo hops off and walks back to his the little corner of a room that he’s claimed as his own. “I will,” he reassures.  

* * *

Before dawn breaks over the horizon Bilbo sits at the entrance of Erebor with his pack in hand. He closes his eyes and breathes; listens to the low murmurs of dwarves talking, the soft footfalls of movement; the beginnings of life.

When he next opens his eyes Dwalin is standing above him, eyes assessing. “Honestly thought you may have returned to The Shire by now.” It isn’t said with malice but Bilbo feels himself bristle. It sounds so much like something that Thorin would say.

For a brief moment he wonders whether Thorin’s ghost has possessed Dwalin.

He gets up, slings his pack over a shoulder and leads not caring if Dwalin keeps up. “I don’t abandon my friends.”

* * *

There’s just so many of them.

Dwarves, elves, humans, orcs, wargs – they’re all dead; bodies strewn about, weapons in/out/around, limbs far flung, bloodily dismantled.

Bilbo swallows thickly and keeps his eyes on Dwalin’s back as they move further to where Fíli was-

_Slain_

It takes them a while longer but finally Dwalin stops and looks around uneasily. “Here…” he huffs out a breath but makes no move to go further, “somewhere here.”

Nodding his head, Bilbo begins his search. “Okay.”

They move in opposite direction. Bilbo reaches out to move bodies not caring that congealing blood makes a home under his finger nails or that fur and hair scalped straight from the heads laying around him are now sticking to the bottom of his feet.

Under the face of the cliff Dwalin calls out. “I’ve found his body.”

Bilbo sighs in relief quickly making his way over but stops short of where Dwalin stands. “I thought you said you found him!” He makes a half attempted try at moving but finds that he can’t. All he can do is stare at the carnage before him and try not to break down and weep on his knees.

_No. No. Oh, mercy please no._

Dwalin’s voice cracks. “I said I found his body.”

Bilbo still doesn’t move. “How do you know it’s him…it could be-"

When Dwalin turns to look at him, he closes his mouth quickly. He can’t question what he too knows to be true. “I just know.” He looks pale in the diminishing light of day. “I promised their mother. I promised to look after them when Thorin would not. He reaches out and runs a hand down the length of Fíli’s arm – one that lays on his chest; from elbow to fingers and lowers his head. “Brave lad you were,” he mutters and hastily wipes his eyes. “I failed you little one.”

Fíli’s body is lying on a pile of rocks. Limbs are twisted around so incorrectly that Bilbo feels his own joints ache in sympathy. His knees are in two different angles – not the right ones, and an arm lays trapped under the rest of his body.

Bilbo lets out a whine as his eyes finally settle on bone and tissue that is no longer weeping blood – Fíli’s head is missing.

There are still - blonde bloodstained - strands of hair embedded in the flesh of Fíli’s open neck that flutter in the gentle breeze.

* * *

He leaves Dwalin to tend to Fíli’s body not trusting his ability to hold it together.

Although that being said, looking for Fíli’s head isn’t any less trying.

He walks past piles of bodies and allows his eyes to roam the landscape. Two more steps away and he stops seeing blonde underneath a wargs drying carcass. His doesn’t want to touch, to come closer and have it confirmed.

* * *

Bilbo Baggins of The Shire was not meant to see this.

He was not meant to befriend dwarves.

He was not meant to consider them family.

But Bilbo Baggins did it anyway.

* * *

Bilbo doesn’t want to touch the hair. Blonde but dirty, matted, braids loose.

He tries pushing the warg but it’s too big to move alone. 

_Come on, Bilbo, you can do this._

He tries again but only succeeds in letting sweat drip down his back. 

“Dwalin!” he yells as he tries another shove, just to have something to _do_ because he can’t wait and not think about what’s laying there before his feet.

A few moments later the dwarf appears and frowns before catching on and pushing. It must be adrenaline as they manage to move the warg several steps away.

When Bilbo looks down he recalls how he fainted just seeing the contract that outlined the many ways that _he_ could die. He had never spared a thought to any of them and now this. Now he lives and – and…

With the warg moved he sees the head. Fíli’s head, on its side pressed into the dirt.

Fíli’s eyes are open. Clouded, but open and Bilbo fights a sob. He turns to Dwalin who has his hands clenched into fists by his sides and tries to say something but the only sound that comes out is him drawing in breath.

Dwalin kneels and closes Fíli’s eyes. “Bilbo – we should take him home now. He’s been here for too long.”

“R-right, of course. Yes, of course.” He opens his pack and pulls out large folded piece of cloth that he had intended to use in case they came upon any wounded. “I don’t know how to do this,” he says softly as his hands touch Fíli’s cold skin. He rubs his thumbs across the prince’s cheeks and then carefully balances him in one hand so he can brush dirty blonde strands away from his eyes.

Dwalin opens the piece of cloth and waits for Bilbo to place Fíli’s head down gently. “None of us do Mister Baggins, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that we try.”

* * *

Bofur meets them as they enter the doors. He immediately removes his hat and twists it in his hand taking in the body held over Dwalin’s shoulder and the bundle in Bilbo’ hands. He tries to breathe through the panic as he sees that the sheet is stained, red seeping through the weave of the cloth.

* * *

A hush descends over the corridor. Dwarves slow down, eventually stopping as Bilbo and Dwalin walk past. They bow their heads and begin to pray in Khuzdul. 

Dwalin grunt’s hefting Fíli’s body, readjusting his grip. They’re so close, to close to stop now. Balin just directs them silently and instructs them to leave whilst he prepares Fíli’s body.

“Bilbo you go on ahead.”

“No. I want to stay.”

Dwalin opens his mouth to argue but Balin shakes his head and fondly looks in Bilbo’s direction. “Better his nimble fingers than your clumsy sausages.” He strokes his beard and sighs watching Bilbo nod once and begin to unwrap the cloth from Fíli’s head.

“What of their mother?” Dwalin asks crossing his arms and standing near the door.  

Balin shrugs, and wets a piece of linen. “I can only assume that they are already on their way back from Ered Luin.”

“Gandalf...already?”

“She’s been away from them for much longer than needed.”

* * *

Balin is gone. 

"The spare." Dwalin says quietly.

For a second he thinks that Dwalin’s referring to Kíli and it already begins to eat away at his conscious because they were so much more than these two nonsensical labels. They were so much more than what they were reduced to. When he looks up he sees that Dwalin’s gaze is focused on Fíli - he realises that he assumed the label for the wrong brother.

Bilbo's hand stops and he looks up cutting a glare in Dwalin’s direction. "What?"  Cloth still in hand he removes himself Fíli's side and stares up at the dwarf who still stares at the fallen prince.

He takes a step forwards and points his finger angrily into Dwalin's chest. Fury runs through his veins and if he could take a moment to consider his actions, and the strength in his voice, even he would find himself afraid. "Don't call him that," he hisses and jabs again. “No, anyone utters that and if they do, you stop them,” he pauses with a quick glance to Fíli’s prone body. “You stop them, do you understand me?”

Dwalin doesn't move though Bilbo’s finger still pressed against his chest is enough to pull his gaze onto the hobbit. He looks at Bilbo and sighs. "It's what the orc called him."

 _Damn orc, damn Thorin and this bloody quest._ "I don't care."

* * *

"You’re brother, certainly was a character. Cleaning his boots on my mother’s glory box! Why if she saw him, she would’ve boxed his ears.”

Bilbo carefully begins cleaning the grit under Fíli’s fingernails.

“And you, strutting into my home like you owned it. Why the nerve of you!”

Dwalin snorts from his place near the door still remaining there like an impenetrable stone figure.  “He wasn’t being cocky.”

“I know that now. But at the time…well you all put me in a bit of a spin.” He finishes the right hand and begins on the left.

* * *

He’s holding one of Fíli’s swords, trying to clean blood off the scabbard and grip 

It wouldn’t do for a prince to enter the afterlife with dirty weapons 

When the door opens a woman walks in silently planting herself by Fíli’s side.

It takes him a few seconds place her.

 _Dís_.

He stands, and tries to not draw any attention to himself unwilling to interrupt a mother’s grief but stops when Dís looks up locking her eyes onto his own.

Bilbo nods in her direction, sword held tightly in his grasp, and says: “Princess,” unsure of what to call her.

“Don’t call me that Mister Baggins,” she says.

“Bilbo,” he offers

“Dís,” she returns. A hand is entangled in Fíli’s hair, fingers playing with the strands now clean of blood and grime.

She moves a hand to her pocket and removes a few silver clasps and a small metal comb. With skilled fingers she quickly braids Fíli’s moustache and places another two on each side near his temples. Bilbo can’t help but smile noting that a mother never loses their touch when it comes to caring for her sons.

“Dwalin said that you’ve been looking after my little lion.” There’s a frown as she moves her hand down to the cloth that covers Fíli’s neck and tugs it back before Bilbo has a chance to shout: _no_.

He expects crying/wailing/anger, but instead she sighs and hangs her head low. Her hand, shaking, runs lightly across the stitches that connect Fíli together. They are small, fine, close together but black thread is not invisible.

“Dís, is there…anything I can do?”

It’s a small offer, not nearly adequate enough to bring her any comfort in the face of losing her sons but she smiles nonetheless and shakes her head. “You should keep that,” she says inclining her head in his direction and looking meaningfully at the sword still in his hand.

Bilbo’s eyes grow wide. “No, I couldn’t!”

She waves him off and turns her attention back to her son. Her voice shakes. “Kíli died with one of Fíli’s swords in hand. Fíli can be buried with that. My son always carried more weapons than he needed.”

“I know. I’ve carried them,” he says with a small smile.

She stands and gently presses her lips to Fíli’s forehead unable to stop the slide of tears that run down her face, drops on his skin and disappears into his hair. “Were they well behaved?”

He thinks back to the pranks and the laughter, and shouting and how tired his felt just watching the two of them run around in general and can’t help but let out a short laugh. “Most of the time.”

Dís’ eyes are bright but lay in sunken sockets that are smudged with a hazy grey colour. Her beard is tamed, her hair tidy, every bit a stressed out princess. But it’s the lines of sadness around her eyes, and the slight downturn of the corners of her lips regardless of how wide she smiles that reveals a mothers torment. “They looked after each other?”

“Always.” Bilbo confirms.

With that, she picks up her skirt in one hand and exits quickly with her, “Thank you Bilbo,” getting lost in the close of the door.

* * *

Fíli’s body is moved next to Kíli’s in the mausoleum.  

* * *

Bifur finds him sitting with Gandalf and grunts at the two of them and lets out a string of Khuzdul.

Gandalf turns his head to Bilbo. “He says it’s time.”

“Time for what?” Bilbo says in askance. Bifur’s hands fly rapidly forming gestures that Bilbo has no hopes of understanding.

Gandalf hums into his pipe. “He says you wouldn’t pay respects until they were together…and now they are. Bifur’s been waiting for you.”

Bifur leads them silently until they reach the door where Bombur still remains seated. Bifur enters first and Bilbo wonders whether he can really just leave and return to The Shire.

He makes his way to Thorin’s first; not having much to say having traded the only words that remained between them whilst he was breathing his last breaths.

Kíli’s next; and he’s still concerned that Kíli’s lying so still and quiet. It’s uncomfortable – he can still see Kíli in his mind’s eye running around, shouting for Fíli to follow him. Bilbo sighs and steeples his hands together, elbows resting on the table and closes his eyes. Kíli once chased a butterfly just because he could.

 _Mister Boggins!_ He hears from beside him. Bilbo flinches and quickly turns his head. There’s no one else in the room except for Bifur who is muttering at Thorin’s side. “Kíli,” he begins clearing his throat. “I do not wish to be haunted.” With no forthcoming reply he shakes his head ruefully. He tells Kíli to be good. Be careful. Don’t annoy Thorin too much. Look after Fíli.

He sits by Fíli’s side and he pauses, unsure of what to say to the golden-haired prince. “I know that you’ll look after Thorin and Kíli…but it would make me feel an awful lot better if you looked after yourself too.”

Bifur coughs waiting at the door. He’s not hurrying Bilbo along – he’s just being Bifur.

He stares at Fíli and blinks, places his palm on Fíli’s forehead like hobbits do for their sick children and hums the lullaby that his mother used to sing to him.

* * *

Frodo’s curious blue eyes widen and his hands immediately thrust themselves into the chest, fingers encircling the old sword. He pulls it out and runs to the kitchen where Bilbo is prepare afternoon tea. “Uncle Bilbo! Uncle Bilbo! Is this yours?" 

Bilbo almost drops the saucers in fright. “Frodo! What have I told you about running in the house?” His eyes take in the sword that Frodo clumsily unsheathes and attempts to wield.

“Can you teach me how to use it? Uncle, is it yours? Can I have it?”

The more he stares at the sword, the more the memories appear. 

“It belonged to a friend.” He takes the sword from Frodo, ignoring the little pout that appears on the halfling’s face and puts it back into the chest. Frodo trails behind him. “Do not open this box Frodo. Promise me.”

“Can I open it when I’m older?” At Frodo’s tenacity he can’t help but smile.

“When you’re older,” Bilbo patiently says putting a hand on Frodo’s shoulder and directing him into the kitchen.  

“Will you tell me how you got it?” Frodo looks up at Bilbo as he climbs onto the chair. He sits on his knees.

“Maybe one day.”

Disappointment mars Frodo's face. “Will you tell me anything?”

Bilbo closes his eyes.

When he opens his eyes three dwarves stand behind Frodo.

Bilbo blinks

The dwarves disappear.

_Not for a long while Frodo. Not for a long while._

* * *

The heir, the spare, my friend, the end. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading/commenting/kudosing/bookmarking.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
